The bottom line with Kale and other superfoods - there is no "superfood." Eat more than the amount of a vitamin or mineral that your body can absorb or needs to run at top performance, and you will not start doing a Benjamin Button. Remember, no one lives forever––and we are all made of stars. 

So Facebook is apparently the top source of news worldwide. Facing allegations of potential bias*, the company recently fired its 'trending'  team and hired a crack team of bots. The result of algorithms deciding our reading material have been hilariously dismal, with a link to a story of "a man masturbating with a McDonald’s sandwich" rocketing to the top. I would feel sad about this but I am not writing for lemmings. I'll take my thousand or so #endwriter readers over the great unwashed anyday.**

Facebook what?***

I am reading an amazingly pertinent bio of Andrew Jackson. There is this contingent of people who will walk into a hail of redcoat bullets just to see what it feels like. 

On the subject of Trump, I was trying to understand what was going on with him... this article
Trump, the Insult Comic Candidate makes total sense.

#endwriter

Antonio “The Magician” Esfandiari has a reputation as a pro who came up “at the right time” during the poker boom and made a name for himself as an tournament force, online brand ambassador, and color commentator for high-profile events such as the WSOP Main Event. What many do not realize is that Esfandiari was highly influenced by his father Bejan, who possesses a strong entrepreneurial determination and has a story just as compelling as that of his son. 


Studying civil engineering in San Jose, California, in the early 1970s, Irani native Bejan Esfandiari felt an inexorable pull back to his home country. He belonged to a prominent family with close ties to the leadership of Iran under the rule of the Shah. Unlike many of his relatives who stayed in the United States, he preferred to return to the culturally rich life in Iran’s historic capital Tehran, rather than make a future in a fast-growing American suburb. 


One consideration was that Bejan’s family ties gave him a promising future in his native country. His uncle held a leadership position in the Iranian military, with oversight over the strategically important Southern region, which encompasses the Persian Gulf coast and significant oil deposits. Arriving by airplane in Shiraz on one memorable visit, Bejan was greeted by a limousine and given VIP treatment as he took in sites surrounding an historic city in the heart of an ancient breadbasket region. The famous Shirazi wine grapes that flourish here were reportedly brought by traders from France’s Rhone valley centuries ago, and renamed Syrah. 


In 1979, the fundamentalist Ayatollah Khomeini came to power through overthrow of the Shah and began an economically disruptive reign as Supreme Leader. In the process, he established a restrictive, Islamist rule of law that curtailed human rights and brought much international business to a standstill. 


As the years progressed following the fall of the Shah, life became increasingly difficult for Bejan Esfandiari and his extended family. His life up to now had been one of steady, work-driven success. Given seed money by his family, Bejan had started his own company in the early 1970s and focused on producing an innovative type of filing cabinet that operated along the principles of a dry-cleaning hanger. Just one cabinet efficiently stored documents that would otherwise have filled several filing cabinets, side by side. 


Bejan had begun producing this groundbreaking design through an exclusive license to distribute the cabinets from the German firm that manufactured them. Not content to be a supplier, he reverse engineered the cabinet from a provided sample. The project required detailed calibrations to make sure the cabinet’s mechanical underpinnings worked just right. 


When Bejan presented the finished product to the German licensor, the manufacturing company could not believe what he had accomplished. Their hand was forced and they allowed his company to fully manufacture, under license, a product that they had expected to simply export and have distributed throughout Iran. Bejan worked tirelessly and built a successful enterprise that employed hundreds. Together with his wife, he started a family and they had two sons. 


As with many in Iran’s middle class, life deteriorated sharply for Bejan and his family in the early 1980s. Production came to a standstill and he saw demand drop precipitously. Bejan was forced to dip into savings amassed during the previous decade simply to keep the company afloat. One year, ordering just five uniforms for his workers, he was confronted by a flabbergasted apparel maker, who remembered orders of hundreds of uniforms a couple years before. 


More than simple economic deterioration, there was another powerful impetus for Bejan taking his family out of the country––at nine years old, his oldest son Antonio was only five years away from an age where he would not be allowed to leave the country. The high school years, from 14 to 18, would be followed by mandatory military service, which at the time involved fighting at the front lines against Saddam Hussein’s entrenched troops, along the Iraq-Iran border.  Bejan was determined that his son would not meet the fate of the more than 1 million Iranian soldiers, many still teenagers, who lost their lives in this protracted conflict. 


Moving to his family to San Jose, where Bejan had family and school connections, required extensive preparation. He spent a year apart from his family, preparing the immigration process, which took three years to fully cycle through U.S. government agencies. When Bejan’s wife and sons finally arrived in the late 1980s, it was a bittersweet reunion––his wife only lasted a couple months before returning to Iran. During Bejan’s long, unavoidable absence, she had become romantically involved with another and ultimately could not stomach the idea of life in a new country, even if it meant living apart from her boys. 


This left Bejan responsible for raising the kids alone, as he built a successful restaurant business in downtown San Francisco. Fortunately, the extended Esfandiari clan was tight knit and Bejan’s parents took care of Antonio and his brother on those frequent days when their father worked late. On the weekends, Bejan reserved the time for his kids and took a role as a supporter and confidante––giving advice as Antonio took a paper route, worked as a busboy and waiter, and ultimately discovered a passion for magic that led to another sleight-of-hand––a successful career as high-roller and poker ambassador. 


About the Author:


Having earned a Guinness World Record in poker for winning a 49-hour continuous tournament in 2013, California native Damon Shulenberger is an inveterate traveler and cloud novelist. Currently in the Philippines, he is conceptualizing an innovative travel platform “fabric” and publishing his cloud novel Arisugawa Park at endurancewriter.com. Mr. Shulenberger is also working on a unique tribal flute field recording and studio album project Chasing the Sun.

​

It has been a while, I admit. Whatever, it has been a decade for me. A few more days one way or another, who cares? Certainly no one in the literary world. And I don't care much for them either.

Important thing is getting Arisugawa Park out there, to the public in my own quirky way. Even counting the instant dismissal the term 'blog' engenders (hence the 'cloud novel' euphemism) so what?

This newly written section is a remembrance of a year living in Azabu, more than a few too many reckless evenings, wondering whether I had gone too far. Or, from a writer's perspective, not far enough.

Without further ado, the beginning of Hayao's dark night in the city.

​Hayao took a few moments to orient himself under the banister of the Union Bank building. He took in the singular pulse of the neighborhood, nightlife action spread down thoroughfares and small tributaries that grew dark and residential 20 meters off the boulevard. 
​
Hayao let the 30-second intervals of alternating pedestrian flow seep in, the flux of passers-by on their way home and to bar, club, restaurant, spa, and hot-yoga assignations. A few tourists, pleasantly mixed-up and not knowing quite where to go, stood out like barnacles on bare rock. There were also sea-level pieces of seaweed, floating, anchored into rocks with careless precision––one plainclothes policeman he half-recognized and a number of professionals, representing well defined territories.

Hayao lit a calming cigarette, long ago banished from his life anywhere but Roppongi. There were four massage women––of the usual Chinese origin, judging by the nearest one’s accent. She wore full length padded coat, sensible evening wear in nippy Roppongi––relying on the subtle pressure of a practiced touch to latch on. Taking the arms of passers-by, nudging with a word or two––this was the origin of the phrase ‘happy ending.’

Hendrix is one of those musicians whom I never wanted to like. His drug taking, the reckless, out of control image of his guitar playing, the general ridiculousness of the groupie and stoned wannabe scene that took advantage of his unwillingness to say no. Classic vampire syndrome.

Which is to say, I fell hard. Thanks to the prep work of my teenage years, I have a firm grounding in all the bootlegs that were widely available circa 1990. I have discovered enough new Hendrix on Youtube in recent weeks to keep my musical imagination firing on all cylinders. Live shows and studio sketches and electric church symphonies that take my breath away. Chasing the Sun is really nothing like Hendrix but even a casual fan will detect a few influences in "UFOs and Labyrinths." 

In between jamming with the tribal players at Lokal and dance-playing wth DJ Tong at Exit, I  have been working on a couple songs that I find fresh and exciting. The first You Got to Make This Better (Or We'll All Be Deader) I have jammed extensively with Omar and ---, who have a little stand in front of the inexcusable Hennan Corp. appropriation of paradise construction site at front beach Boracay. It is really an uplifting message song that hearkens to 1960s folk, Hawaiian ukulele music, Bobby McFerrin, and 4 Non Blondes.*

Then there is this kind of collage thing that draws together three or four little hummed chant and ballad things I came up with, combined with a little acoustic riff that I found in a 10 minute echo drenched jam Hendrix did with Mitch Mitchell on table taps and hand claps. This could be pretty sonically sophisticated, like a multi-movement song. Let's see if the vision translates to John and Paolo at Alchemy, who have the skills to put it together instrumentally.

Leaving Boracay tomorrow for Dumaguete, via Bacolod. Oh yeah, I'll try to get up Ari Park 1.27 before I leave. It is getting interesting to me again. Whenever I feel frustrated by the general lack of recognition and compensation for what I believe is original art, I remind myself that art itself is the process. Endurance is the grace to persevere. 

*I will not put out the rough, spontaneous versions of the song up for years––at least until after the polished studio version is released. I've decided that in a world of instant sharing, there is mystique in holding back. 

This is the weeding process. In high school, for a period of three years, I did gardening, weeding, bramble removing, irrigation line placing mulching, composting, and lawn mowing on a daily basis. I was really learning the lay of the land in Montclair, with an aim of what––I don’t know. But I sure learned a lot about gardening and the way that development was starting to lay its heavy mitt on even the idyllic. In typical Taoist (some would say simple autodidact) fashion I gained deep-set ideas, as I explored the natural world.*

I have  devoted a lot of time to thinking about spacial uses and what makes land and people right. And how that connects with a happy and relaxed natural world, that can also go about its business. When you hear birds and you see lizards, small rodents, deer, you know you are in a safe haven. 

What this is leading to is that I am winnowing out the readers by not posting much in the way of photos. How many people read my stuff for the text? Can I keep them coming, when I launch a real project. A narrative ‘fabric’ nonfiction that follows my attempt to make the fabric idea ignite and become something. 

I have mentioned the idea of a series of articles to International Boulevard, which two friends I admire independently contribute to or follow. Here is the first article pitch:


Article One - Paraw Research - The Anahaw Conundrum


Starting at the Anthropology Dep’t at Silliman University in Dumaguete, learning a little about traditional boats in the Visayas. Can the native sail fronds (anahaw) required be sustainably sourced, without cutting down the trees. They need to be replaced a few times a year, this is part of the fabric.

Are there old growth anahaw with big enough fronds still in the Visayas or do we need to go to Mindanao? Are there sustainable eco-forestry projects in the Philippines or is it time for a nascent one to emerge? My preference is that the anahaw is sourced from somewhere in the linguistic region of Boracay, which would be Aklan, Romblon, or Negros Occidental.

In addition, there is the quest to find the traditional boat builder. I had one local point me to a specific beach near Malay on the mainland, where he said Ati make traditional boats. Another to a city just north of Iloilo, where there is a major banca and paraw boat-building industry.  A couple to family members who, coincidentally, fish and make boats. 

Rather than make a quick decision, I am more drawn to the idea of taking the long coastal way back from Dumaguete, along several islands, and exploring boat-making traditions a bit. So I can make an informed choice. If the people are listening to the project idea with some kind of shared feeling of purpose, then it really suits. 

That is Article One, which underlines the level of research that fabric will take to be meaningful. The project is to have a traditional boat built for the owner of a garden and nipa hut hostel on (quickly-being-overbuilt) Station One, Boracay. Huge condotel complexes, with not a single tree planted on the property and “path widening” threaten the remaining trees and sense of old Boracay, up to the property line. The surrounding acre was a purposefully neglected and degraded, yet charming, seasonal frog pond two years ago. 

As I write these articles about the first project, which will launch a fabric logo'ed traditional Visayan paraw on White Beach, Boracay, I plan to  fill in the shades of fabric and what the idea entails on the platform level. The idea is no less profound than to create a new app, Lonely Planet-esque digital guide, geolocated (or not, it's left as an option for the individual user to decide) transactional platform, Wikipedia-like site, and TripAdvisor sharing concept that transfers 80 percent of profits earned back to the local fabric. In the form of recycling, tree and bush planting, and trash-bin setting up activities, initially. If an NGO-like base of partners can be set up to accept incoming money.

What fabric proposes is no less than taking the cloud infrastructure, developed at great cost and shareholder equity, and free it to accomplish what no politician, even a Bernie Sanders, can. Capitalism-driven, gross national happiness-focused sustainability. Beta Boracay:  “they call it paradise”

And then there is the whole project when I get back to Tulum, where according to Jack Brown of International Boulevard, large-scale appropriation of yoga shalas and nature friendly communes occurred courtesy of the outgoing mayor's development buddies. 

As an aside, the next section of the cloud novel Arisugawa Park is coming soon.  1.27 - Roppongi Blues - Hayao finds memories shaken, not stirred. In the last section 1.26 - Deep in a Dream - David sobered up enough at the hostess club to ask Lise about Eve.

#endwriter

Thanks faithful readers here on faithless street, the sound stays the same––the pitch fork, the almost-lit hay, burn the witch they say. Pick your poison. 

I never knew I could see so far before I chanced upon a fallen star. I picked myself up and continued, chastened. I traversed pebbles and bubbles, keeping my head above the stream water. And finally I learned how to immerse. 

May you live forever, whoever moved you first and whoever told you to stay. Those who first loved you and were your friends. They in memory stay. Whoever tried to bargain with your heart and with your soul. 

Dylan Thomas never had anything on the lay of land that sweeps its dice in brittle fingers. 

Tomorrow, a subsumence. Tomorrow a clarion call, the way we all wave our hands like fronds in that piece of fabric, paradise evermore.

We make out like there is only going to be what we made yesterday. When we can build––at age whatever, we don't have to die. Our best days are those not limited to now. 

#endwriter #ChasingTheSun #fabric

I grew up as an only child in a wooded, technically urban neighborhood, that felt isolated from mainstream currents in many ways. There was a lot of turbulence and (defensive) greed going on in Oakland and it was difficult to find worthy allies. Suffice it to say that a lot of my effort throughout the early adult years involved trying to break through self-imposed barriers. I could not easily jam, could not step outside myself long enough to get beyond the argumentative phases in human relationships. This was why Jimi Hendrix became a hero of sorts––whatever color the skin, only music really mattered.

I think it was early memories of communal San Francisco, counterpointed with this entirely different, enclosed reality, full of secrets unworthy of being  such, that gave my thought process its dynamic tension. Thank god I did not retreat into my suburban box––as so many did––and give up on trying to process and understand others' reality.

How do I interact on a daily basis with people much richer and poorer than me, in meaningful ways? The skillful traveler sets in place a construct that preserves alone-time and space, while providing gaps for productive communication, bridging cultures and viewpoints. The realization that we are interconnected and that the current system has in-built "tragedy of the commons" greed levers in place,  has led me to formulate fabric. 

A capitalist construct that uses money transparently, toward GNH and sustainability goals––I won't reiterate (thank god).

​#fabric

Like the flute music I share with countless musicians and people with ears, I have not kept the fabric idea hidden. Even if someone takes it and runs with it, which happens to most worthwhile ideas, I will not stop sharing it. Because it has no chance to fly unless out of that shell, from which (to paraphrase Leonard Cohen) I have tried, in my way, to break free. 

#‎ChasingTheSun‬

Above, I present the latest flute jam collage in the Chasing the Sun series. Recorded in Dumaguete, Philippines at the outset of Habagat season. Artwork by PJ Villanueva in Boracay. My Facebook post on the subject:

"I'm just putting together a little "jam-convo" collage from the Boulevard in Dumaguete, with Ramke and Malka. It is pretty exploratory, which is what I like about first musical encounters. From tribal meanderings to Blackbird, Bob, and of course Sunday Morning."

Ramke Samadhi is the Bolo Bolo Roots band leader, based in Surigao and Siquijor. Malka Shaver is a Silliman University student, who happens to be crowned Ms. Dumaguete (photos purloined from Facebook).

‪#‎endwriter‬ ‪

I understand that life itself is not always groovy and I understand that a lot of musicians have put themselves in very bad ways. But the death of Jimi Hendrix was tragic and I'll tell you why––relatively sober, Clapton-style, he would have led the way to a new way of looking at America's ethnicity problems––which were not problems, but potential to evolve. Some people never forgot that original vision.

Intelligence is defined in so many ways. What comes up as written ability in some arises as music in others. I am blessed in having the linguistic capacity to write my own shit in exactly the way I want to present it. This had to do with forgetting grammar and focusing on other aspects of language, starting in eighth grade. If I could read Shakespeare and predict him, then I had to move on.

To Hendrix and others (too numerous to name), music  was going to be a means of transformation. And it began with protecting the eardrums. Savoring music rather than allowing it to eat you, first step toward maturity. Hendrix was guided by demons toward the end of his career, but his music was questing for salvation. 

New Rays of the Evolving Sun

I like an idiot wandered around the gates and then through, and then lived deep in it, and then took a rapid turn. This was the Tao and it left me off, intentionally where I began. Except it was different. This practice of observing and writing was never more than a practice of learning to live as I felt most free, in myself. So that when I came into contact with others it would be willingly and with best intent. And when I thought over the events of the day, and the week, I would have much to mull over.

I have in me music. I have in me time. I have in me the ability to preserve and make things better. Being human is not just about limitations, it is about facing reality and overcoming it. This reminds me of the new song I am working with with the guys on the beach––You Got to Make This World Better (Or We'll All Be Deader).

​#endwriter #fabric 

Interesting New York Times article "Secret Ledger in Ukraine Lists Cash for Donald Trump’s Campaign Chief" on Trump's murky finances and political affiliations. 

​"Handwritten ledgers show $12.7 million in undisclosed cash payments designated for Mr. Manafort from Mr. Yanukovych’s pro-Russian political party from 2007 to 2012, according to Ukraine’s newly formed National Anti-Corruption Bureau."

This is pretty big news, if it is true... confirming the public's questions regarding Trumps' affiliation with Russia. 

Also confirming people's sneaky suspicion that, with regards to Wall Street and entrenched power, Clinton and Trump are two sides of the same coin. Same elite connections.

Yesterday a Russian dude hugged me while tribal jamming on Bulabog beach and said, "I don't care about politics man, we are on the same side."

‪#‎endwriter‬

Meanwhile, I could not help but reshare the twenty-somethingth Pulp Fiction meme I've received on fb via Gallic. I've had a soft spot for Pulp Fiction since John Travolta wore a Banana Slugs t-shirt from my alma mater. And who could forget Samuel Jackson, the first time one witnessed his thunderous oration? Not to mention Uma and Lenny cutting a rug at Mel's Diner. I think it was the soundtrack that had the longest overall impact however. I only got into the cleverness of Tarantino's cringe-inducing concept later. 

acquaintances.